Having turned some thirty thousand verses off the reel, “J. M., Gent.” abruptly concludes, with the remark,—
“My leave I here of poetry do take,
For I have writ until my hand doth ache.”
There is a fine field for an editor in The New Metamorphosis; virgin soil, I warrant.
Manningham in his Diary, under date 21st November 1602, has been at the pains to record a bon mot of Marston:—“Jo. Marstone, the last Christmas, when he daunct with Alderman Mores wives daughter, a Spaniard borne, fell into a strange commendation of hir witt and beauty. When he had done she thought to pay him home, and told him, she thought he was a poet. ’Tis true, said he, for poets feigne and lye, and soe did I, when I commended your beauty, for you are exceeding foule.” Not a very witty saying, and not very polite.
In 1633, William Sheares the publisher issued, in 1 vol. sm. 8vo, The Workes[30] of Mr. John Marston, being Tragedies and Comedies collected into one volume containing the two parts of Antonio and Mellida, Sophonisba, What You Will, The Fawn, and The Dutch Courtezan.
The following dedicatory epistle to Viscountess Falkland, in which the publisher insists on the modesty (save the mark!) of Marston’s Muse, is found in some copies:—
“To the Right Honourable, the Lady Elizabeth Carey, Viscountess Falkland.
“Many opprobies and aspersions have not long since been cast upon Plays in general, and it were requisite and expedient that they were vindicated from them; but, I refer that task to those whose leisure is greater, and learning more transcendent. Yet, for my part, I cannot perceive wherein they should appear so vile and abominable, that they should be so vehemently inveighed against. Is it because they are Plays? The name, it seems, somewhat offends them; whereas, if they were styled Works, they might have their approbation also. I hope that I have now somewhat pacified that precise sect, by reducing all our Author’s several Plays into one volume, and so styled them The Works of Mr. John Marston, who was not inferior unto any in this kind of writing, in those days when these were penned; and, I am persuaded, equal unto the best poets of our times. If the lines be not answerable to my encomium of him, yet herein bear with him, because they were his Juvenilia and youthful recreations. Howsoever, he is free from all obscene speeches, which is the chief cause that makes Plays to be so odious unto most men. He abhors such writers, and their works; and hath professed himself an enemy to all such as stuff their scenes with ribaldry, and lard their lines with scurrilous taunts and jests; so that, whatsoever, even in the spring of his years, he hath presented upon the private and public theatre, now, in his autumn and declining age, he need not be ashamed of. And, were it not that he is so far
distant from this place, he would have been more careful in revising the former impressions, and more circumspect about this, than I can. In his absence, Noble Lady, I have been emboldened to present these Works unto your Honour’s view; and the rather, because your Honour is well acquainted with the Muses. In brief, Fame hath given out that your Honour is the mirror of your sex, the admiration, not only of this island, but of all adjacent countries and dominions, which are acquainted with your rare virtues and endowments. If your Honour shall vouchsafe to accept this work, I, with my book, am ready pressed and bound to be
“Your truly devoted,